Fragile Moments
by Angelic Guardian
Summary: When pieced together, they form Arnold and Helga's love story. Oneshot.


**Author's Note:** I decided to explore the progression of Arnold's feelings for Helga, although I purposely excluded any events related to The Jungle Movie (which is officially in the works!).

 **Disclaimer:** Hey Arnold! © Craig Bartlett

* * *

Arnold's tenth birthday is an extraordinary affair.

His grandma and grandpa are the brains behind the whole celebration, and the result is nothing short of amazing. They've rented out Dino Land for the entire day, allowing the whole town to partake in the fun.

Everyone is all smiles around Arnold, giving him high fives, ruffling up his hair, patting him on the back. He's floored by how many people have turned out to share his special day with him, and while it's beyond flattering, he can't help feeling overwhelmed by all the attention he receives throughout the day.

It's late in the afternoon when he decides he needs a break from all the excitement, and so, while his friends are busy hopping from one mechanical ride to the next, laughing and hollering and having the time of their lives, Arnold sneaks off to a quieter section of the park. He heads for the entrance, where he leans against an animatronic Tyrannosaurus rex with glowing red eyes, and soon he's sliding down it to sit on a patch of scratchy, fake grass.

Not even the mechanical whirring of the rides can disturb his peaceful reflection as he looks out at the sky, tinged a warm orange from the setting sun. He catches a plane flying in the distance, and as his eyes follow it, so do his thoughts, carrying away as easily as the gentle gust of wind that blows past him in that moment. His eyelids droop in sudden melancholy as he feels an all too familiar twinge, the same one he always feels whenever he finds himself thinking too deeply about—

"Hey, _birthday_ boy," a sharp voice cuts in. "Everyone's looking for ya. It's time for cake."

Arnold doesn't respond, or even move, but he does meet the eyes of the fuming girl now standing before him. The fierce expression on her face disappears the moment their eyes connect, and she drops her hands from her hips.

"What's eating you?" she asks in a serious tone, a jarring shift from her usual harshness.

"Nothing," Arnold says at first, but she simply stands there, clearly waiting for him to tell the truth, and the next thing he knows he's letting out a defeated sigh. "I mean… I don't know. Don't get me wrong, today's been amazing. My best birthday to date. But, the thing is… See, I can't help feeling like… On special occasions like today, I really miss…"

"Your parents?"

He blinks, mystified. Is he really that easy to read? He doesn't let himself ponder the answer, and instead he simply drops his gaze as he says in a small voice, "Yeah."

The distant sound of wild screams from kids riding the roller coaster fills his ears. When it dies down, he hears her approaching footsteps, along with her voice, which sounds soft, sympathetic even, as she says, "Look, I know it can't be easy growing up without having your parents around, but the thing you've gotta realize is, you're actually one of the lucky ones."

"I am?" he asks, looking up at her.

"Sure. Think about it," she says as she sits down next to him. "Just about every single person we know is here to celebrate your birthday with you, at your favorite amusement park, no less. Can you imagine how much it must've cost to rent out this place for the entire day? Any kid would love to be in your shoes. Heck, I know I would. I'm lucky if my parents even remember how old I am. Which they don't. Point is, your parents may not be here, but, wherever they are, they still love you. And on top of that, you've got grandparents and friends and neighbors who all care about you. I'd say that easily makes you one of the luckiest kids in the whole darn world."

Arnold gapes at her, completely speechless, while she keeps her eyes on him in a steady gaze.

"I never thought of it like that," he says after a while. "That actually makes me feel…well, happy. Thanks."

A smile stretches across her face, and there's something particularly warm about it he can't quite pinpoint, but all he knows is he wishes he could see it more often.

"Glad I can be of service to ya," she says, and she stands, looking down at him and bringing her hands back to her hips. "You coming for cake now, or what?"

She says it like it's a challenge, and, for some reason, it makes him grin. He gets up as well, and as they head back into the park together, he can't help but ask, "Hey, Helga… How come you're being so nice to me?"

She looks at him in momentary surprise, until she shrugs and says, "Well, y'know, it _is_ your birthday and all, so I figured you deserve at least one day off from my abuse. Just enjoy it while it lasts, though, 'cause come tomorrow, it's back to the ol' grind."

She throws a punch to his shoulder, and as he absentmindedly brings his hand to it, he finds himself grinning softly, as does she.

* * *

"When's Geraldo gonna get here already?" Helga asks, lying on her stomach on Arnold's red couch with her feet up as she flits through one of his notebooks. "Honestly, who does that so-called _best friend_ of yours think he is, anyway? Like we don't have better things to do than to wait around for him to show up?" She scoffs. "I tell ya, if he thinks we're gonna do his portion of the work for him, he's in for a rude awakening."

Arnold's at his computer, doing research for their big social studies project. They're nearing the end of seventh grade, and it feels like all he's been doing lately is preparing for finals. He feels the pressure to do well, but Helga, aside from her gripes about their project, is hardly stressed at all. School has always come naturally to her. It seems to be one of the only things she has in common with her big sister, Olga, though he knows for a fact she wouldn't appreciate him pointing that out.

"Well, we might as well get started on the report while we wait for him," Arnold says.

"Fine, have it your way," Helga says, still furiously turning pages of his notebook. "I'll dictate, you—"

She stops, and the abrupt silence catches Arnold so off guard to the point where he swivels in his chair to see what's wrong. Helga's staring at his notebook with widened eyes, urging him to ask in concern, "What?"

She looks up at him, not quite shaking off the shocked look on her face as she asks, "Did you draw this?"

She turns his notebook to reveal an intricate colored pencil drawing. It's a landscape of the jungle, with twisting branches and dark green leaves and a volcano burning in the background.

"Oh. Um—yeah," Arnold says, his face warming when he thinks about how intently she was staring at the picture mere moments ago, soaking it in, taking in every detail. "I get inspired every once in a while. My dad used to draw, too. He's really talented, actually. I have a bunch of his old sketches. As for me, it's mostly just a hobby I like to do in my spare time."

"Well, it's one hell of a hobby, I'll give you that," Helga says, turning the notebook back to stare at the drawing some more. "Who knew you had such a hidden treasure trove of artistic talent? I gotta say, I'm actually blown away here. This picture's amazing."

"Really?" Arnold asks, stupefied, as he realizes that this is, in fact, the first time she's ever openly complimented him, and without even hurling an insult immediately afterward. He doesn't make a point to draw attention to that realization, though, and instead he allows himself to accept her compliment with modest pride. "Thanks, Helga. That means a lot coming from you."

She looks up at him again, a bit startled, and as he takes in that doe-eyed look on her face, he observes how there's something remarkably vulnerable about her in that moment. He's not exactly sure what that vulnerability means, nor does he get a chance to find out, because that's when Gerald walks in, and just like that, the moment is over.

* * *

"Man, bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, bases loaded and a home run that wins the whole game. It doesn't get any sweeter than that," Helga says as she walks with Arnold, who carries his baseball bat against his shoulder, while she swings around her catcher's mask. "That's the kind of wonderful junk you usually only see in movies, but _wow,_ is it so much more satisfying when it happens in real life."

"Yeah," Arnold says, a warm grin finding its way to his face, as there's something downright captivating about the infectious excitement in her voice. "Guess I really did come through for the team, huh?"

"I'll say," Helga says. "What a swing. I'm sure Mickey Kaline is looking down at you right now and giving you a big thumbs up from that big baseball diamond in the sky."

"He's still alive, Helga," Arnold says in amusement.

"Oh, of course _you_ would know that," Helga says, and even though she's mocking him, he can't help but notice that her voice lacks its usual scorn. In fact, it almost comes off as… _playful._ However, that lighthearted tone is gone and replaced with something much more bitter as she says, "You know, these are the days we'll fondly look back on when we're all old and gray and need a walker to get around. Once high school starts in a couple weeks, it's all downhill."

"What do you mean?" Arnold asks, troubled by her matter-of-fact tone, like she's thought about this a lot and already has her mind set. "High school's only the beginning. There's still so much more in life to look forward to."

"You and your eternal optimism," Helga says, shaking her head. "It's real precious and all, but even someone as idealistic as you is going to have to realize sooner or later that life ain't all sunshine and rainbows and freakin' _happiness."_

Arnold stops short, staring at Helga, who trudges along, her catcher's mask now dangling listlessly from her hand. Eventually she stops as well and turns around to catch his gaze. He's dumbstruck by the blueness of her eyes, the piercing color standing out beautifully against the backdrop of the cinder block buildings, the dingy gray roads and sidewalks.

"Anyway," she says, and he blinks as he realizes he's been staring at her for he doesn't even _know_ how long. The soft smile that spreads across her face makes him wonder if he's missing something here. "Thanks for walking me home, Arnoldo. You really are a good old fashioned gentleman, aren't you?"

He doesn't respond, but she doesn't seem to notice as she heads up the steps to her front door. The moment she opens it, a blaring voice cuts through the serene moment.

"—CRYING OUT _LOUD,_ MIRIAM, HOW COULD YOU BE SO STUPI—"

The explosive words are engulfed by the door slamming shut, and Arnold winces at the sudden stillness that surrounds him. A startling chill runs through his veins, one that lingers even as he starts for his home, with Helga's unsettling words ringing in his mind the whole way.

* * *

As Helga predicts, their first year of high school is when things start to change, and not necessarily for the better. Arnold hardly sees her as much as he used to, as she skips class more often than not, and when he does see her, she's standoffish, showing glimpses of the bully persona she used to hide behind back in elementary school. But beneath every glare, every snide remark, every moment of anger, there's a sadness welling up within her that he simply can't ignore, and he won't admit it to anyone, but he's worried about her.

It reaches its peak when he's walking home one evening, approaching Gerald Field, where the pungent smell of smoke wafts in the air, bringing forth an immediate sense of dread upon him, a feeling that only intensifies when he hears some familiar voices.

"Quit hoggin' it, Harold," Stinky says in a drawl more prominent than usual.

"Yeah, man, you know the rules," Sid says, a noticeable rasp as he speaks. "Take a hit and pass it along."

"Okay, okay, _geez,"_ Harold says, drawing out the word in his nasally voice. "Here ya go, Madam _Fortress_ Mommy."

"Don't mind if I do."

Arnold's heart stops. He rushes ahead and grinds to a halt when his eyes land on the four of them, lying in a heap on the ground with their backs against one of the brick walls of Gerald Field. Helga's got a joint pressed between her lips, the tip burning a fiery red as she slowly inhales, while Sid, Stinky and Harold all look up at him with lazy grins on their faces.

 _"Heeeey,_ Arnold," they say in a chorus.

Helga meets his eyes and promptly erupts into a coughing fit, to which Arnold's nerves ignite, out of fear, or disappointment, or indignation, or maybe a combination of all three. After she calms down, she hands the joint to Sid, who eagerly puts it to his lips and flicks on a lighter.

"What're you staring at, football head?" she asks in a drowsy tone reminiscent of her mother's, which scares him all the more.

"Wow," Harold says, unaware of Helga's hand reaching into the open bag of potato chips he's holding. "His head _is_ shaped like a football."

Stinky and Sid snicker, while Helga simply arches her brow and stuffs the handful of potato chips into her mouth, littering her shirt with crumbs as she chews.

"Helga," Arnold says in a strangled breath when he finally finds his voice. His mind races, but the one thought that stands out to him above all the rest is that he needs to get her out of here, now. He's already reaching for her hand as he asks, "Can I talk to you for a second?"

She says nothing, but she doesn't argue when he takes her by the hand and lifts her from the ground, leading her away.

"He so has the hots for her," Sid says once they're out of earshot, and Harold and Stinky nod.

"Why are you doing this?" Arnold asks, cutting right to the chase, as soon as they're far enough from Gerald Field.

"What do _you_ care?" Helga asks.

She rips her hand out of Arnold's grasp, folding her arms in defiance. Up close, he can see how red and hazy her eyes are, and it terrifies him, because instead of the crisp blue gleaming with intelligence, all he sees now are clouded and lifeless eyes, holding in pain.

"Helga," Arnold says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "If something's bothering you, you can talk to me about it."

"Yeah, right," Helga says as she jerks herself free from his touch, jabbing a thumb to her chest. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it my whole life."

"But that's just the problem," Arnold says, the heat of his dormant anger flaring to life once more. "You're fifteen. You shouldn't have to take care of yourself. I'll bet your parents are probably worried that you—"

"My parents? _W_ _orried?_ " Helga says, and she releases a shrill, sardonic laugh. "Oh, man. That's a good one, Arnold. Really, that's adorable. You think my parents give a damn about me, let alone what I do in my free time? They never even _wanted_ me. Don't you get it? To them, I'll always live in the shadow of my perfect older sister. No matter what I do, I'll _never_ be good enough. So, I figure, what's the point of trying anymore? Might as well have some fun and get high, right?"

His anger is quelled by a somber feeling that crashes against him, leaving him with a heavy, aching heart. As swift as the tide, the feeling washes away, and now, he lets the spike of newfound determination take over.

"There's no way you can let yourself give up that easily," he says. "You're way too smart and talented to let it all go to waste. You may not think so right now, but you have to believe me when I say that you're destined to achieve incredible things in your life. Deep down, I know you already know that."

Helga visibly softens, her shoulders dropping, her eyes widening, giving her a broken, innocent look, until she snaps out of it by stubbornly crossing her arms again.

"I hate how you do that," she says in a grumble.

"Do what?" Arnold asks.

"See greatness in me, even when I'm at my absolute lowest," she says. "It's actually kind of annoying. Even if it is exactly what I needed to hear."

It occurs to him that, in her own unique way, what she's actually doing is thanking him right now, and he can't help but smile to himself, because he knows he's gotten through to her.

"Can I walk you home?" he asks.

"What, are you worried I won't be able to find my own house?" Helga asks, but he only waits, and finally, she shrugs. "Fine. If it'll ease your conscience."

As they head in the direction of her home, strolling closely side by side, Helga closes the remaining distance between them by slipping her hand into his. Their eyes lock for a second, but neither one of them says a word. Frankly, the gesture says it all.

* * *

Once Helga gets her spark of confidence back, there's no stopping her. She joins the speech and debate team and starts winning competitions left and right. She gets straight A's, becoming one of the smartest students in their grade, second only to Phoebe. But, above all her academic accomplishments, she writes. She writes and writes and writes, copious amounts of poetry, filling up a spiral notebook she carries around with her to every class.

Every so often Arnold's curiosity gets the best of him, and he tries to sneak a glimpse over her shoulder while she's writing, and every time, he's met with a disdainful look and a stern "mind your own _beeswax"_ that, for whatever reason, only makes him laugh.

He doesn't expect to have the opportunity to return the favor, but it happens to arise while he's sitting in the park with his sketchpad one afternoon, putting the final touches on his latest creation, when Helga plops down in front of him.

"Whatcha drawing?" she asks.

Arnold hurriedly snatches up his sketchpad, clutching it protectively to his chest.

"None of your _beeswax,"_ he says, without the same brutal tone she always uses, but with a simple teasing smirk instead. He can't overlook the way Helga's eyes bulge for barely a second, before she lets out a scoff.

"You really think that's going to work on me?" she asks, mischievous now. "C'mon, what are you _hiding?"  
_

His heart's suddenly beating fast as she stares at him with that slyness to her features, and he wonders if she somehow already knows what he's been diligently sketching for the past hour. He figures it's only fair that she sees for herself, and so, even though he's wary of her reaction, he lowers the sketchpad. Her eyes grow bigger than ever before, and her lips part, and he swears he hears her gasp as she sits there, taking in his drawing.

Of her.

She stands tall, her golden hair sweeping across her shoulders, a proud smile on her face, her blue eyes shining. It depicts all the qualities he admires most about Helga: her intelligence, her strength, her beauty.

When she finally looks up at him, with that same marveled look on her face, he feels heat rise to his face in a powerful wave, and now, a shy grin finds its way to his lips.

"Like I said, I get inspired every once in a while," he says, and he's only met with more stony silence from her. Has he actually rendered Helga G. Pataki speechless?

She blinks, slowly regaining her bearings, though her voice is nothing more than a whisper as she asks, "Can I keep it?"

"What?" he asks, momentarily taken aback himself. She says nothing more, which gives him time to think, and finally, he says, "Okay, but it'll cost you."

He can see she's beginning to clear from her daze, her usual gruffness seeping back into the edges of her voice as she asks, "What's your price?"

With a broader smirk, he lets the request fall gracefully from his lips.

"You have to read me one of your poems."

Helga lets out a loud, derisive laugh, permanently shattering her stupor.

"In your _dreams,_ Arnold," she says as she stands up. "Nice try, though."

She taps her index finger to his nose, and with that, she walks away, leaving him in his own stunned silence.

The next day, he slips the drawing into her locker with a note: _It's yours, free of charge. I want you to have it._

He doesn't get to see her initial reaction to finding the piece of artwork in her locker, but he does happen to catch her eyes lingering on it later that day, when she pulls it out from the back of her notebook, a bashful smile ticking up at the corners of her lips.

* * *

It's no coincidence that once Gerald and Phoebe start going out during junior year, Arnold and Helga start spending a lot more time together. It becomes second nature for Helga to come over after school instead of Gerald, and while Arnold misses spending as much time with his best friend as he used to, he can't say he minds her company.

"How do you read this chicken scratch you call handwriting?" Helga asks, holding up one of his notebooks. "Is this even English?"

She's reclined on his bed, leaning against the sloped wall that leads to his roof with a pillow behind her head for cushioning. He's noticed she has no problem going through his things, let alone making herself comfortable in his room, but again, he can't say he minds.

"Are you going to help me study, or are you going to keep making fun of my handwriting?" Arnold asks, sitting on his bed with a textbook in his lap.

"Can't a girl do both?" Helga asks, cracking a sideways grin at him. She flits through his notebook a bit more, before frustration consumes her, and she shuts it decisively. "I give up. This crap's illegible. Which is ironic, considering you can draw better than most of these alleged 'gifted artists.'" She reaches into her backpack sitting on the floor and retrieves her own notebook. "You're lucky you have me here."

She goes to open the spiral notebook, only to abruptly shut it, and when he looks at her, she simply says, in a rushed mumble, "Wrong notebook."

"Why are you so scared to share one of your poems with me?" Arnold asks before he can stop himself.

Helga's hand freezes halfway into her backpack when she meets his unwavering gaze. He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but it's been nagging him for years now, and truthfully, despite his tactlessness, he doesn't regret asking it, because he can't stand not knowing anymore. He wishes she would realize that if she were to stop hiding her sensitive side all the time and just open up to him a little bit _,_ he'd gladly let her in. It's all he's ever wanted.

As it turns out, his bold question appears to strike that very nerve in her, the final push she's evidently been needing all along. She narrows her eyes at him, as if in icy determination, and suddenly she brings the notebook back to her lap, the pages blurring as she rapidly flips through them. She stops when she reaches the last page, looking him straight in the eyes one more time, and, at long last, with all the courage and eloquence in the world, she reads:

 _"Some call love the topsy-turvy feeling your heart makes  
The way your palms sweat, and your stomach quakes  
But what I call it, in my soul, deeper than the ocean blue  
Plainly, simply, when I think of love, I like to call it, you."_

She looks at him as the last word leaves her lips, left floating in the quietness that befalls them. Arnold's breath strays from his throat in a mesmerized exhale. His heart pounds so hard he's worried for a second it's about to burst from his chest.

And then, he does the only logical thing he can think to do next, or perhaps, the most _illogical,_ but either way, he doesn't care. He leans down and captures her lips in a deep kiss, and her reaction is instantaneous as she gently moves her lips beneath his own. It's the most unbelievable feeling he's ever experienced in his entire life, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders why it's taken him this long to finally kiss her.

When he draws back, her eyes drift open, dilated and breathtaking, staring up at him in sheer disbelief, as if she's silently asking, _Did that really just happen?_

"That was a beautiful poem," Arnold says, as it's the only thing he can think to say in that moment. "How long did it take you to wri—"

"Shut up, Arnold," Helga says, but with a softness to her voice he's never heard before, making the command sound anything but harsh. She smiles, the same way she did back when she comforted him on his tenth birthday, and after all these years, he finally recognizes the emotion behind it.

Affection.

The next thing he knows, she's sitting up and planting her lips on his, firmly, hungrily. She sweeps her arms around the back of his neck, while he takes hold of her waist, getting lost in the feeling of her hands, the warmth of her lips.

They don't get any studying done that evening.

* * *

He's not used to seeing Helga nervous.

She fumbles with her index cards as she sits in the passenger's seat of his grandpa's Packard. He keeps stealing glances at her as he drives, but she's too focused on the arguments she's prepared for the statewide competition, muttering the same lines to herself over and over, until she finally lets out a groan.

"Oh, what's the use? Like my last-minute prepping is going to make even the slightest bit of difference at this point. Of course _Olga_ would never stress out whenever she'd do these stupid competitions, and of course she'd win them _every single time._ My dad still gloats about it, as if they're _his_ achievements or something. How much more pathetic can that guy get? You'd think now that his almighty beeper emporium went under, he'd actually make the time to come and see _me_ compete, but no, it's still all about Olga and her la-dee-da life, while Miriam's too busy hugging the bottle to do anything else. Some family. I swear, sometimes I feel like you're the only person who truly cares about me, Arnold."

That catches his attention, but when he looks at her from the corner of his eye, she's engrossed in her index cards again.

"Anyway, listen to me, chewing your ear off," she says without looking up. "I'd better save my pipes for the competition, right? Speaking of, thanks for driving me. Miriam would've let me borrow her car, but it's such a rundown piece of junk I had to respectfully decline. The engine's gonna give any day now, mark my words. Then Mom'll be stuck taking the bus everywhere because god forbid Big Bob will let her borrow his car, even though he's literally got nowhere to go." She makes a noise to express her derision. "Oh, brother. There I go again, running my mouth. Ugh, what is _wrong_ with me? I mean, so it's the state finals, so what? I really need to relax, don't I? Hey, you know what'll shut me up?"

Arnold shivers at the sudden feeling of Helga's nimble fingers grazing his jaw, and he only tightens his hands around the steering wheel. He gives her a fleeting glance, though it's enough to catch the seductive smile on her face.

"Helga, I'm _driving,"_ he says, but if anything, that only seems to encourage her as she chuckles impishly.

"You are such a prude," she says. "Pull over."

He's discovered early on in their relationship that he doesn't have the willpower to resist her, and so, he does as he's told, and she proceeds to work her mouth on his while running her hands all over his body.

They end up arriving to the competition with minutes to spare, but it doesn't rattle Helga. She sweeps her competitors, speaking with such passion and conviction that it comes as little surprise when she's announced the winner. Arnold grins fondly, applauding with the rest of the crowd as Helga holds up her trophy, beaming when she looks at him.

* * *

Arnold stands on Helga's stoop, waiting to pick her up for their date, when a disheveled Bob Pataki opens the door.

"You here to fix the cable?" he asks, only to stop, sizing Arnold up. "Hey, wait. You're not the cable guy. You're the girl's little friend. Alfred?"

"It's Arnold, Dad," Helga says, shoving him aside. "Don't wait up."

"Yeah, whatever, Olga," Bob says carelessly, about to shut the door, when Arnold's voice stops him.

"Her name's Helga."

Bob looks at him, brow raised, while Helga stops and stares as well, alarm creeping over her face. Arnold, however, remains firm, staring down Helga's father.

"It's really disrespectful that you can't even remember to call your own daughter by the right name," he says.

Bob's brow tightens now. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And I'm not her friend, either," Arnold says, undeterred by the older man's menacing glare. "I'm her boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Bob says, throwing a suspicious look at Helga, whose eyes pop, but she stays mute.

"Maybe you would've known if you paid even the slightest bit of attention to Helga," Arnold says. "Maybe, if you stopped comparing Helga to her older sister all the time and treated her as her own person the way she deserves, you'd realize how amazing she is. Maybe, if you finally learn how to stop shouting and actually listen, you'll figure it out yourself someday."

He takes Helga by the hand and leads her down the street, adrenaline fueling every step. It sickens him to see her own flesh and blood treating her so poorly.

"Arnold."

He stops and meets her eyes, which she drops to the ground.

"No one's ever… I mean, you didn't have to…stick up for me like that. Like I said, I can take care of myself, but… I really… Well… What I'm trying to say is…"

He can't help grinning over how tongue-tied she is. It's ironic that she's a speech and debate champion, but when it comes to expressing her own feelings, she's far less composed. He's unable to resist himself from placing a hand on her cheek and kissing her, pouring how much she means to him into it. When they part, she exhales slowly and whispers against his lips.

"I love you."

The words have an overwhelming effect on him when he hears them spoken with such calmness, such profound intimacy. He can feel it deep in his soul, the feelings he's been harboring longer than he's even realized, and the same words tumble out of him with such ease.

"I love you, too, Helga," he says. "And, for what it's worth, more people care about you than you know."

She grins that beautiful grin again, filling his heart with warmth, and in that moment, he feels complete.


End file.
